


The Honey Trap

by MyBloodyUnicorn



Category: Almost Human
Genre: Dom/sub Play, F/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:18:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyBloodyUnicorn/pseuds/MyBloodyUnicorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s lost track of how many cops she’s had to fuck over the years, all for the sake of intel. The boss is right, this guy does seem like their best bet: never married and now drifting towards middle age; smart but not too smart. Kennex, John Reginald. Detective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Honey Trap

_At least this one’s hot_ , she thinks.

Kennex, John Reginald. Detective. Broad shoulders, good jaw, nice ass. _Not fond of the hair, but that’s easily fixed._

She’s lost track of how many cops she’s had to fuck over the years, all for the sake of pillow-talk intel.  Of course, the job used to be easier. Sometimes, they’d take her home with them. She’d just lay a hand on their desks and the transmitter embedded in her left palm would install a simple bit of tracking software. After that, the job was done and she’d never have _that_ pig sweating on top of her again. But then the police caught on and it was back to simpler, less technological methods. A _honey trap,_ they call it. She’s disgusted to think people once ate honey, made from bugs, but apparently it was delicious, very sweet and very sticky.

She flips through the Insyndicate dossier in front of her, pages of details and recon photos. All paper, of course. One of the first things she learned: no one can hack into a sheet of paper. The boss is right, this guy does seem like their best bet. Never married and now drifting towards middle age. Smart but not _too_ smart.

She clears the table and puts his details in the center. Then, like reading a deck of tarot cards, she lays out page after page of of intel on all his former lovers. She deftly scans for patterns. Not much there to connect them all.

 _At least the guy definitely has a physical type,_ she thinks. She grabs photos of a couple of the women and sweeps the rest away.

 

==

 

“Why you want brown?” the cosmetician asks, looking at the intel photos. “These ladies… they all kinda _plain_.”

“Can we just get on with it?” She gets into the chair and presses the button to angle it back. “We’re not paying you for your advice.”

The cosmetician shrugs meaty shoulders, fingers flitting over a touchpad. “It’s your face, _mikeshë_.”

She takes the anesthetic mask from the cosmetician and puts it on herself; she’s done this enough times by now. Just before she goes under, she tries to remember what color her eyes used to be, what they call it when something is brown and green at the same time.

The drugs have scarcely worn off when she’s fully awake again, demanding a mirror. The Albanian cosmeticians always do good work but she needs to see it. The hair is still her own, but the rest… the lips are fuller, the eyes dark and rich.

“Nice work with the cheekbones,” she says, running her fingertips over her skin. Her face feels like it’s on fire and she’ll be nearsighted for days but she can walk out on the street right now and not attract attention. Not unwanted attention, at least. She smiles.

“Anna,” she says to the reflection. “I think we’ll call this one _Anna_.”

 

==

 

He’s an easier mark than Anna thought. All she had to do was smile real big and jiggle her tits under his nose and he was hooked. _Typical_. She makes him wait, though. They told her to plan for a long-haul operation, so she needs him to be enraptured with her. She'll make him work to get her on her back, but she doles out just enough to keep him interested. She says goodnight with a lingering kiss and palms his half-hard dick through his pants.

He takes her out five times before she decides it’s time. When she takes him home to her tastefully decorated and electronically monitored apartment, she finds she doesn’t have to fake a thing—he’s hung like a fucking ox. He spends the night, which turns into him spending the entire weekend in her bed.

 

==

 

She meets her contact for a debriefing and she can’t keep still.

“So... how’s the new job?” the woman from Insyndicate asks. Her mouth smiles but her eyes do not.

“Hard,” Anna says, trying not to wince. The hard planes of the coffeeshop bench make her battered cunt ache even worse. “The work is hard but I think I like it. And the boss seems to like me.” Anna blows on the coffee before sipping it.

“Good,” her contact says. “Really good.”

 

==

 

Weeks go by. They’re still fucking all the time, and although he’s been giving her plenty of gooey, dewy-eyed looks, he’s cagey about his job. She’s always gotten details by playing the dumb, curious girl: _tell me more, my big strong policeman._ But this guy seems to prefer smart women. _Tell me what you’re thinking,_ she says to him. Most times, he just smirks and grabs her ass.

Her cover story is that she's a journalist, something to excuse her getting phone calls at odd hours and needing to rush off to work, sometimes for days at a time. He’s not exactly well-read, so it doesn’t take a lot to impress him. She feeds him a couple old stories they’ve planted with her fake byline—the 2040 earthquakes, the scales epidemic in England. He practically swoons, can’t believe someone _so smart_ and _so beautiful_ would be with him. It still doesn’t get him to tell her about his job, so she keeps looking for an in, some way to crack him.

One night, she straddles his body and pins his arms under her knees. He tries to shift but she presses him down and he realizes he’s immobilized. Even in the dark room she can see his eyes are wide, his lips parted. She lowers her cunt to meet his eager mouth and thinks, _oh, Kennex, now I’ve got you; I’ve finally fucking got you._

She starts him off slow: a silk scarf to tie his hands to the bed frame and _I’ve never done this before_ in his ear. Later, he takes her away for the weekend and she brings a set of restraints with her. They’re pink and cute and completely unthreatening. They don’t fuck this way every time, but when they do, he’s so malleable afterwards, so… _soft_. She almost finds it endearing.

She says _tell me what you’re thinking_ while he’s in one of these fucked-out glows. He says he loves her. She gets dangerously close to laughing. _Oh, too soon, kid,_ she thinks. _If this were for real, I’d be running for the fucking hills._

This used to be the hardest part of a job, the _I love you_ bit. A couple years back, she realized it’s not all that different from faking it when you’re fucking. They’re so wrapped up in their own feeling, you just give a good show and they take it to mean you feel like they do. She puts on a trembling smile and tells him she loves him _so much, so much_.

 

==

 

“How’s the job?” her contact asks.

“Good. I think the boss wants to promote me,” Anna says.

The other woman smiles. “You should take it.”

“You think so? I was thinking it might be time to move on, try something new.”

“No, you should stay." The woman drains her glass, signals the bartender for another. "That way, you can use the experience there for your next job."

Anna nods. "I'll take another, too," she tells the bartender.

 

==

 

The day they move in together, he sweeps her up into his arms and carries her over the threshold. _What a fucking sap,_ she thinks while she squeals with laughter.

The domesticity required for this assignment is completely alien to her. She pretends to have opinions about bullshit like pillowcases and frying pans. A week earlier, she claimed she was out of town on a story, but in reality she was getting a crash course in being the perfect girlfriend: how to cook, clean, shop. She can’t believe it’s 2045 and men are still so charmed by this shit.  She takes to calling him “honey.” _Hi, honey. Have a good day, honey. I love you, too, honey._

On the first morning in the new place, the sun is streaming in through the uncovered windows. She wakes up to find him staring at her with this strange look on his face. Like he’s happy but also kind of… _amazed_ , she thinks. No one’s ever looked at her like that before. She doesn't know what people do in this situation, so she just smiles back and lays her hand on his face.

As she’s trying to mirror the expression on his face, she suddenly remembers: _hazel_. That’s what they call the color of his eyes, the color her eyes used to be. _Hazel_. What a strange word.

 

==

 

As roommates go, she’s had worse. He cleans up after himself, doesn’t hog the bed, doesn’t put the empty milk carton back in the fridge. But she’s tired of pretending she doesn’t mind when he invades her shower almost every morning or that he never makes the coffee. _How hard is it,_ she wants to ask, _to make a fucking pot of coffee?_ He calls her _babe, baby, baby girl_ and it makes her want to scream.

Long-term couplehood is even more boring than she imagined. _And people do this by choice?_ she thinks. Anna’s supposed to be new in town to explain her lack of family or friends. His only friend is his partner, so they spend far too much time with him and his wife. They go out to dinner or sometimes they hang around the house on a Sunday afternoon watching a game. She likes the partner’s wife, one of those women who knows her man’s flaws and isn’t afraid to crack a joke at his expense after a drink or two. John thinks it’s shitty, thinks she shouldn’t make fun of someone she loves. Anna couldn’t really give a fuck but she pushes back, starts a fight with him—just enough to piss him off and keep him from noticing that things are otherwise too perfect between them. He’s quick to anger but he’s also the first to say he’s sorry. Sometimes she wishes he wasn’t so weak.

 

==    

 

For Valentine’s Day, she surprises him by wearing stockings with garters and a push-up bra. She thinks she looks ridiculous, _like a bang bot, for chrissakes,_ but he’s yanking off his clothes as soon as he sees her. But her real gift is a small rubber paddle the size of a hairbrush. She wanted to buy everything in the glossy little shop and spent a long time imagining the damage she could do to him with a suede whip or a spreader bar. But she didn’t want to overwhelm him. Not yet.

She rubs the paddle against his thigh, its surface deceptively soft, almost velvety. She tests the water with a playful little slap. He laughs quietly. She brings the paddle down harder and all his muscles tense. She strikes him again and again until his thighs are red and he is almost in tears. She realizes her arm is trembling, not with exertion but with barely restrained fury.

 _Jesus, this is fucked up,_ she thinks.

She tosses the paddle aside and lavishes kisses on his abused skin before fucking him.

Afterward, they lay together with his head tucked under her chin. His leg is draped over hers and she can feel the heat radiating from his battered thighs.

“Tell me what you’re thinking, honey,” she says.

And he finally does. He says he thinks they’ve identified a base of operations for Insyndicate. They’ve started collecting evidence in order to raid it and arrest everyone. She tips his chin up and kisses him to hide her triumph.

 

==

 

“So,” her contact says, “are you looking for a new job yet?”

Anna nods. “Not yet, but soon. Just riding out my time with this one.”

“I’ll bet,” the other woman says.

 

==

 

She wakes up in the middle of the night in an empty bed. From the living room, she hears the sound of an acoustic guitar playing softly. He sits on the edge of the couch, one foot on the coffee table, head bent over the strings as he plays. The music seems familiar, but she thinks all classical music feels that way—like she’s heard it before but can’t explain how or when. He does not see her come in.

“Can’t sleep?” she asks from the doorway. He looks up.

“Did I wake you?” he says.

She shakes her head. “I thought you said you didn’t play that one any more.”

“I don’t,” he says. “Not really. This is the only piece I can remember how to play on it.”

“It’s beautiful,” she says softly. She sits next to him and he sets the guitar aside. “What is it?”

“Bach,” he says. “ _Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring._ Church music, I guess.”

“But it sounds so sad,” she says. He puts an arm around her and she allows herself to be drawn in closer. He kisses the top of her head.

“Don’t be sad, baby,” he tells her. She must be tired, she thinks, because she doesn’t even flinch.

 

==

 

Anna gets a call from her contact. The police raid is set to go down in a few days, maybe a week tops. Time for her final debriefing.

She tells him she’s going away on a long assignment, researching a story about the Holy Reclamation Army. She packs light, just the few things she actually needs, knowing she’ll never see the rest again. She brings her suitcase to a storage unit then heads in to be debriefed.

She spends almost two days helping Insyndicate set traps throughout the building, canisters of Myklon Red set with tripwire, ready to gas any poor bastard who gets too close. She realizes she hasn’t checked in with John—and the last thing they need right now is for him to get suspicious and call the raid in early.

They’ve set up a VR booth in the very building he’s planning to raid. She tells them to program it to look like she’s somewhere vaguely European looking. She strips off her tactical gear and dresses again as Anna. She checks the time, does a quick calculation, and guesses the sun would likely be setting now.

“Make it spectacular,” she tells the programmer. “The best sunset you’ve got.” Her last message to him. The irony isn’t lost on her.

When the programmer gives her the signal, she closes her eyes for a second. When she feels she’s tapped into the feelings she should have, she starts to record the message. She smiles at the phone and points out how beautiful the sunset is. She tells him she can't wait to get back to him.

“What I really wish,” she says, “is that you were here with me.”

For a moment, she thinks about what that would entail: the two of them, away somewhere. He’d probably just bitch about the food or the uncomfortable hotel bed. He’d also probably turn his back to the sunset, no matter how amazing, and look at her with that expression of wonder he gets. He’d probably take her face in his warm hands and ask her, _how did I ever get so lucky?_

After she clicks send, the programmer shuts down the displays and she’s back in the dilapidated factory basement.

“Nice one,” the programmer says. “You even had me believing it.”

“Go fuck yourself,” she says.

 

==

 

At a distance, Myklon Red smells sickly sweet, like honey, they say. At close range, the gas liquefies the alveoli in your lungs in minutes. Someone is shrieking. Anna hears it transform to a wet gurgle then nothing. There’s a haze of smoke and shouting as the cops realize they’ve been ambushed, led into a trap. She throws the last briefcase of programmable DNA into the back of the armored truck and screams at the driver to _go go go, drive_. She watches the truck peel off then she gets back to work.

As she turns the corner, she raises her rifle and handily picks off an MX. The android drops, exploding with a shower of sparks, and she sees John. His back is turned but she knows it’s him. He’s half-carrying, half-dragging his partner out. She takes aim and spares a thought for the partner’s wife, the woman whose company she enjoyed, who she’s about to make a widow. As she squeezes the trigger, someone brushes past her. She misses the mark.

A flash of light and, in slow motion, John flies forward.

_His leg. Oh Jesus. His fucking leg._

Her incendiary bullet hit him in the thigh and now, his leg is just _gone_ , cauterized clean off. She stands there, rooted to the spot, watches him turn over, watches his face as he tries to comprehend what happened. _This wasn’t the plan,_ she thinks. _This wasn’t the fucking plan at all._

“Nice work,” her contact shouts. “Finish the job and get out of here.” The woman presses a pulse charge into Anna’s hand. Anna twists the canister and lobs it. Even in the din, she can hear it clatter to the ground in front of him.

 _Goodnight, honey,_ she thinks. _Goodnight. Goodbye._

She turns her back before the parabolic pulse obliterates him.

 

==

_Well, I’ve had worse_ , she thinks.

Vogel, Peter Andrew. Detective. She picks up a recon photo. A little goofy looking, hair thinning a bit.

She sets the photo down and buries her face in her hands.

She stands up and sweeps the dossier to the floor. She doesn’t scream, doesn’t cry, just picks up her chair and smashes it against the brick wall. Splinters fly, the chair’s legs clatter to the ground, its seat shatters. Her arms ache and her back runs with sweat. From somewhere in the recesses of her memory, she hears him.

_Don’t be sad, baby._

She drops the chair and doubles over, thinking she’s going to be sick. She opens her mouth and a keening sound unlike anything she’s ever heard comes out, a wail of rage and sorrow and regret. She falls to her knees and rests her forehead on the floor. She weeps until only stillness is left.

_At least he’ll never know._

It’s a small comfort but she clings to it. _At least he’ll never have to live with knowing it was me._

She tidies the room, picks up the scattered papers.

 _But what I really wish…_  

She tries to stop herself but the phrase keeps coming back to her.

_What I really wish is that you were here with me._


End file.
